


Let Nothing You Dismay

by kototyph



Series: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen 'verse [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rivers Strongly Encouraged Them to Do It, Sex Pollen, Trope-Typical Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 10:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: It might surprise some people, the amount of time I've spent imagining what kissing Thomas Nightingale might be like.





	Let Nothing You Dismay

**Author's Note:**

> Thymesis, this is a treat! The opportunity to write for you was serendipitously wonderful because I'd just finished another Yuletide ROL prompt but had itchy timestamp/sequel fingers almost immediately, and your request for Nightingale/Peter and first times was exactly what I wanted to do. I hope you like it!
> 
> Readers generally: this can be read alone as PWP, but the context will be richer if you refer back to the first fic (God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen). I will link them in a series once Yuletide de-anons.

It might surprise some people, the amount of time I've spent imagining what kissing Thomas Nightingale might be like. Apparently not Bev, who was the reason I was getting to find out, but Nightingale himself looked vaguely poleaxed when we finally broke apart and I whispered, “Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages.”

I’d occasionally let myself daydream about it, leaning over the Jag’s center console after he drove us like a demon through Central London, or at breakfast when he gave me that first pleased and almost surprised smile of the day, _you’re here, I’m not alone._ We could have spent hours in some warm and still-smoking corner of the firing range just— kissing, my hands working up one of his painfully tailored shirts and undoing him one button at a time.

Somehow, I’d never been quite bold enough to imagine him tying me to a chair and sitting in my lap, but I guess I had Bev to thank for that too.

“ _Have_ you,” he said, voice low and thumb stroking the side of my neck. I shivered. “Peter… is it gone?”

He meant the glamour, the one that had pried me out of my comfortable orbit and in a matter of a few increasingly confused days sent me crashing into him— specifically, into the bath he was trying to have this evening. The armchair underneath me was almost soaked through, as were my clothes. Like most sensible people, Nightingale did not bathe in much and had not had time between removing and restraining an obviously magic-addled apprentice to put on more than a waterlogged dressing gown. It was now pooled around his waist, sash entirely missing in action, and he was just as caught in the glamour as I was.

“Er,” I offered. “It could be fading?”

He bit his lip, dragging white teeth over the pink swell. “Fading?” he repeated a bit doubtfully.

I could still sense the full weight of the sweet _vestigium_ twined around both of us, but we could have been boiling in honey and I wouldn’t have cared. “Maybe we should go on a little longer?” I suggested, tugging against the _formae_ that had my wrists pinned to the upholstery.

Nightingale frowned muzzily, as if there were an argument he’d like to make but was having trouble finding it. I could just reach his mouth with mine again and once I realized that, it was irresistible.

From his position across my legs, Nightingale had a bit more leverage than I was able to exert on the proceedings and he used it to full advantage, swaying back to keep me straining forward. He kissed me like we were on the silver screen, more air than contact as he pressed in brief and chaste where he wanted, leaving me to chase after his lips as best I could.

“Sir,” I said a bit reproachfully as he pulled away again, hands dragging slowly down the front of my wet jumper. “Thomas. You could at least let me fully test the hypothesis.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured with a secret, almost teasing smile. His fingers found the hem and slipped under. “But your objectivity leaves something to be desired, I think.”

“Not at all,” I said. I could tell his concentration was slipping; the binding _formae_ keeping me in place had begun to fray at the edges. My feet were free, still in their sopping wet trainers, then one elbow. “I think it’s working.”

He actually laughed, quiet and broken off with a gasp as I nuzzled up under his jaw, my shoulders finally detaching from the chair back. His skin was damp and warm, soft under my tongue, and his blunt nails scratched at my sides.

“Peter,” he groaned. I hummed and rocked up experimentally, his knees spread wide over my hips and the heat of him bleeding through my wet trousers. “God, _Peter—_ ”

I wanted my hands free more than anything, especially as he leaned into my mouth with another curse as I bit at his pulse, flesh mounded between my teeth. His fingers dug hard into my back, under the jumper, and my left wrist came free.

“See? Glamour’s disappearing, it’s done,” I said in quick breaths of my own, trailing small nipping kisses to his ear, lingering there until he swore. Arms around his waist kept him in place when he tried to turn and meet my mouth, and he blinked his eyes open to stare at me in dawning realization. “So I think it’s time you got rid of the modesty wrap, don’t you?” I said, and pulled the dressing gown down off his arms. It landed with a sodden plop on the floor next to the armchair.

He really was blushing everywhere now, at least from my vantage point. “How underhanded,” he said, amused and breathless. He shifted in my lap like he might have liked to keep the gown after all, but subsided. I palmed the lean muscle of his thighs and squeezed appreciatively, and he chuckled. “I begin to feel as though my virtue might be under threat.”

“I want to be very clear,” I said into the hollow of his throat, moving along the long sine of his bared flank and into scandalous territory. “I am threatening. Er, offering to threaten.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said, “ _Christ,”_ as my mouth drifted lower along his pectoral, tongue flicking experimentally against the rosy tip of one nipple. His hands clenched on the back of my neck and shoulder. “Peter—”

“Any virtue you’ve got,” I mumbled into his skin, and sucked it into my mouth.

I dwelled there a minute or two too long, Nightingale squirming delightfully under my lips and getting rather louder at the introduction of teeth, and there was a precarious moment when we either needed to make a conscious descent to the carpet or gravity was going to do the work for us.

“There’s a bed,” Nightingale panted. He was kissing me again, now with gratuitous, hungry abandon, and I honestly had no idea how he thought I would or could understand anything more complex than the stuttering rhythm beginning to build between us. “A bed, right there.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked, utterly preoccupied by the need I could hear in his voice, his rising arousal, the obvious ineligibilities of remaining in my cold, wet clothing for a second longer when I had all this spread out like a feast before me.

We made it to the floor next to the bed, half off the hearthrug, and Nightingale arched under me with a witless little whine when I sunk down and pulled his leg up over my shoulder.

“ _Peter,_ ” he said, head dropping back, back flexing against bare wood. “I— _ah—_ ”

“Not yet,” I said into the curve of his stomach, “not yet,” and made sure of it until his hands were dragging fistfuls of my jumper up around my ears and I had to pin one of his thighs to the floor or be vised between them. I reared to my knees, finally and a bit futility trying to shove my trousers down around my ankles, and one of his hands found my hair and dragged me up before I could do more than unbutton my fly. Nightingale had an arm around my neck and the agonized beauty of a saint in martyrdom, and I kissed him then to swallow every last noise he made as he came over my fingers and half-opened pants.

The glamour shattered like honeyed bits of brittle glass, but neither of us were paying attention.


End file.
